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A life & style blog written by Bash Harry, a 21 year old perfectionist with little to say but much to do. Let's talk beauty, fashion and intersectional feminism.

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So This Isn't Love

Thursday, 9 February 2017

"i'm all yours."

you smile.

"For tonight?" I ask, just as arms wrapped around my waist.

You nod.

"For tonight."

I smile, caressing your face nuzzled in my shoulder. I can imagine you differently. I let your face remain the same. Brown hair and flushed skin. Slender and young, a wickedness lighting your eyes. I'll call you beautiful for tonight, as you will call me perfect. Plain lies we tell ourselves, and I almost believe it.

This isn't love, but we can pretend it is.

This isn't love, but I wish it was.

To feel love then and nothing now, doesn't change how I touch you. My hands still buried in your hair. Your fingers still clutch my waist. You pull me closer. I close my eyes. We exhale ecstasy desired, and share sharp gasps. Our noses graze when lips part. Then meet again, and again, and again. We hold each other like lovers, and just that.

This isn't love, but I wanted it to be.

For tonight, I can be yours. Meaningless words I whispered. An illusion portrayed in need of empty bliss. I am marked by bruises on my neck. You are stained crimson from temple to jaw. I see and smile, and you follow in pursuit. It means nothing to us. For tonight, you are mine.

This isn't love, but it's not love I crave.

If only I loved you, and if only you loved me. Perhaps then, we could fall in love. Instead you are a remnant of a night I will soon forget. Still, when Eros strikes, our desires thrive.

The night hazy but lights still flicker above us. In the flashes, brown eyes caught one another. Bodies fell. I cling to your shoulders. You whisper sweet nothings. Writhing to the rhythm as time passes. In these fleeting moments, I almost forget you. I don't even know who you are.

Our eyes meet. Our smiles match. A touch seals our fate.

"Be mine." Whispers between breaths. Strong arms cling to me. I linger for longer than I should. "I want you."

"I know."

I don't love you. I don't intend to.

Instead, I lead you away.

Where we can feel loved, just barely. What a pleasure to delight each other detached. Enchanted in darkness with my head pressed against your chest. Your pulse slow, mine racing before I succumb to the night. This is passion without heart, still refined by dawn. I tell you I enjoy our time together. A time I will erase from memory.

To quote what my friend said after reading this piece; 'Daaaaaaaayuuum, Bash.'

Consider this a work of fiction than a biographical anecdote. A short narrative inspired by late nights alone, watching romantic dramas in simultaneous awe and disgust. I sit down, watching film after film, wondering if love truly is like it is on screen. Wondering why romance must mean love and if it's even real.

This isn't love, I know, but we can pretend it is.

Oh, and thanks Ernest Ng for being a faceless faux lover. I owe you one.